The First Mystery
by TARDISblue13times
Summary: He receives a letter without a return address. "Miss me?" It reads.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, why are we in America?" John asked for the hundredth time that day.

"It's for a case. I would've come alone but Mrs. Hudson wanted us both gone. Besides, you'd get bored without me."

"What case? We haven't had one all week."

"True, we haven't had one all week. I, on the other hand, have been working on one for the past day. An hour before we left I received this letter in the mail." He pulled out a white envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to John. Inside was a single piece of paper that read, "Miss me?"

"But- that doesn't make sense. Didn't he shoot himself in the head?"

"Yes, and then we found some other recordings that we found out were from my sister. But what doesn't make sense is how this could still be happening."

"It's someone else isn't it?"

"That's my guess. But we'll just have to wait and see. Turn it over." John turned the paper over. On the back it had an address and the time 12:00am. Underneath it said, "Come alone." "Time and place. That's where he wants us to meet, that's where we'll meet."

"That's in 20 minutes."

"Just enough time to get there." He hailed a taxi and got in, stopping John from following. "He said come alone. You get the next one. I'll meet you at the hotel."

"But-"

"I promise I won't die." With that, he shut the door. John watched as the cab drove off, hoping he'd see his friend again.

…

Sherlock stepped out of the cab and onto the concrete sidewalk in front of the large dark building. He saw a figure quickly disappear through a door. He sprinted to follow it, and closed the door behind him. The figure was gone.

"Hello?" He called. "I know you're there. Who are you?"

"Hello Sherlock," came an unsettling voice. Then the figure walked into view. They wore black tennis shoes, black pants, a black shirt, and a black hoodie. The hood was up, shielding their face, until they lowered it. A cascade of dirty blond hair fell to her waist. Her grey eyes were strangely beautiful as she seemed to stare right through him. She stood about 5'6", had a square face shape and pale skin.

"Sorry to scare you like that, just how else was I supposed to get you here?"

"I wasn't- I wasn't scared."

"Well you were at least interested. Sorry to disappoint you but this has nothing to do with him."

"How did you know-"

"About Moriarty? Let's just say I'm just as much as a fan as him."

"Who are you?"

"Me? Well, do your deductions, see if you can figure that out for youself."

He paused. Then gave in and started scanning her, looking for any hints as to who she was. "The clothes are new, but not good quality. Judging by your makeup you don't go shopping regularly and so you use as little as possible. But the new clothes… you're wealthy but you don't like to show it and so you buy low quality clothes but ones that still look good. You wear little makeup because you think wearing to much will drown out your natural look. You are happy in your current life, I know this because of the effort you put into your look. Neat fingernails, shows that you don't bite them, everything about your look is neat, orderly, this is done with a calm nature, not a nervous one. You are happy with your life and wouldn't change a thing. You get along with your family, siblings, and have always had an ordinary life, but there's just one thing I don't understand. Why would you want to meet me? You're clearly a fan but not an ordinary one. So here I ask again, who are you?"

"Try again."

"What?"

"You didn't get any of that right so try again, then you'll know who I am."

"No- what's your name?"

"My name? It's Amy Smith."

"I didn't get any of that right?"

"Well you were right about one thing. My life has always been ordinary. Too ordinary. Nothing ever happens. It's been driving me mad. But the thing is, I'm just like you Sherlock. Our minds our the same. You just used your gift for other things. You see, you use your gift for solving crimes and figuring people out but the thing is, I think that people are just so boring, so ordinary, so lifeless that there's no point in figuring them out. You see, the difference between you and me is that I spend much more time in my mind palace. I think of it as more than just a memory technique but as a way to really explore your brain. The mind is much more interesting than the outside world I find. You know, I am really glad that I wrote you up Sherlock." She started to back out of the room.

"Wait, why did you bring me here? Who are you?" Sherlock called after her. But she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

"John, where's your computer?" Sherlock asked after bursting into the hotel room.

"It's in my bag why?"

Sherlock pulled out the laptop computer and quickly signed in.

"Hold on, how do you know my password?" John asked accusingly.

"You're so easy to hack John, you always have the same two passwords. Really I could use a challenge every once in awhile."

"Well.. what are you doing?"

"I'm researching."

"Researching what?"

"Amy Smith."

"And who's Amy Smith?"

"She's the woman I just met with."

"Oh, so what's she got to do with Moriarty, did you find out?"

"She's got nothing to do with him, that was just a scam to get me here."

"But how did she know-"

"Shh John I'm thinking." He flicked a hand up and closed his eyes. On the computer he had found many Amy Smith's, none of which were the woman he met. But then he remembered the last thing she said, "I am really glad I wrote you up Sherlock." Those words did not match the context of what she should have said. She should have said, "I'm really glad I looked you up" not wrote you up. It makes no sense. Unless she was trying to say something. He opened his eyes and scrolled down the list of search results until he spotted one that caught his eye. The Tweenage Life of Amy Smith was a book written by Crazygirl. Username, he thought. Doesn't do me any good. He went to her profile. At the top was her information. Location, Vancouver, WA, exactly where he was. Gender, F, female, obviously. Member since April 2016, not useful at the moment. Writer last online… Below that was the News page. Winners for a contest of sorts it looked like, not helpful. Below that was her featured writing, maybe later. And below that was her profile information. It started with a poem:

It's the little things they don't notice about me.

No one really knows my story

Mostly because I don't tell them.

So it's my fault they don't know I guess.

But then again, those people who want to know me

Think they know me

Try to know me

But never really do know me.

The things people know about me

Are the things they see on the outside.

They don't see the pain

The worry

The longing

The suffering

The past

The memories

The non-existent ones at that.

They also don't see the hope,

The light,

The joy.

I want them to see it,

But I can't let them.

I can't let it out.

Those are the downsides of being me.

Below that it said, "Do you want to know who I am?" Yes! Sherlock thought anxiously. But there were only pictures. Nothing but google images it looked like, of women without their face showing. Then below the last picture it said, "I'm everyone, and no one. I'm just a grain of sand in a vast desert, a single star in the night sky. I'm completely anonymous, yet known by many. I am what you make of me. So you tell me, who am I, really?" Sherlock slammed his fist on the table.

"I don't know!" he shouted suddenly making John jump.

"Sherlock, um, do you have to be doing this now, it is the middle of the night. And, can't you wait for her to I don't know, slip up or something, so that you can find her easier?" John put in.

"She's not a serial killer John. She can't slip up. Not when there's nothing she can slip up on. She met me that one time. Unless she starts sending me more letters, she's not giving me any more clues. I have to work with what I have," he near shouted. He went back to the computer and started to type.


End file.
